Les Misérables

Hi all, my Vietnamese Dears,

For the ever first endeavor of my own, I’ll try to make the most advantage of a rather limited proficiency just hopefully be able to bring you a masterpiece of contemporary literature – The great writer Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables, an everlasting classical literary work – in a simpler English writing style closely adapted from the original same title novel of Victor Hugo. I somehow came to this very challenged effort, after my profoundly sensitive to such an impressive work of the art, with those inner wishes to embark on a very fascinating venture so as to accomplish two of the following matters – Firstly, expressing my adoration towards Victor Hugo’s great commitment and his ceaseless contributions for the world literature, together with the human-being’s civilization. Secondly, bringing to you - my Vietnamese buddies – a better approaching manner to delightfully enjoy this significant state-of-the-art work. A grandiose novel.

“Jean Valjean is free at last after nineteen years in prison. Cold and hungry, he is rejected by everyone he meets. But Jean’s life is changed forever when he discovers love. He spends the rest of his life helping people, like himself, who have been victims of poverty and social injustice – ‘les miserables’. “

• The project is under hard working out – coming soon in the next several days in parts of individual chapters. Stay stunning, my novelistic readers.

Translating Programmed by Richard Nguyen - coming to you from the center of Ho Chi Minh City, a beautiful riverside-covered land of PMH resident.

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Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables is one of the greatest novels of the nineteenth century. In the book, he describes and criticizes the social injustice in France between the fall of Napoleon in 1815 and the failed revolution against King Louis-Phillipe in 1832. He writes in his own introduction to the book: “The laws and customs of France create a social condition which is a kind of human hell. As long as unawareness and poverty exist on Earth, books such as this will always be needed.”

‘Les Misérables’ is a French phrase cannot be translated exactly into English. In French, it has two meanings. It means ‘people who live in misery’; it also means, ‘people who live outside society in total poverty’. Hugo’s interest in social justice and his concern for these ‘misérables’ is obvious. But it is not Hugo’s desire to improve conditions for the ordinary citizens of France that make this a great novel. Les Misérables is a great novel because Hugo was a Romantic* at heart, and the book is filled with moments of great poetry and beauty. It has a deep of vision and inner truth that make it a timeless classic, one of the great works of weatern literature. Even today, over 150 years after it was written, Les Misérables is a powerful story. It has been made into many films and plays. In 1986, a musical version opened in London. It was an enormous success, and is still extremely popular in theatres in London, New York and other cities around the world.

Born in Besancon, France, in 1802, Victor-Marie Hugo decided at an early age to be a writer. In 1817, aged fifteen, he was honoured by a literary organization for a poem, and he published his first book of poems when he was twenty. Over the next sixty years, he wrote twenty books of poetry, nine novels and ten plays, and produced a huge amount of literary, political and other writing. His best years were 1829-1843. His great historic novel, The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1831) made him popular. He wrote several successful books of poetry. He also wrote plays, two of which – Hernani (1830) and The King Amuses Himself (1832) – were adapted by Verdi for his operas Ernani (1844) and Rigoletto (1851).

However, 1843 was a bad year for Hugo. His play, The Governors, was a failure. But then something much more serious happened, which affected him badly for a long time: his eldest daughter and her husband drowned in an accident. For many years, Hugo stopped writing fiction and concentrated on politics. As a young man, Hugo had supported the Royal Family, despite his parents’ support for the republic of Napoleon. In later years, however, he received many honours from King Louis-Phillipe, he became more publican himself. At first, he was happy when Louis-Phillipe was forced from power in 1848 and Louis Napoleon became President of a newly-formed republic. But Hugo soon realized that he disliked Louis Napoleon (later Napoleon III). He criticized him openly, and in 1851 he was force to leave the country. He lived with his wife and family for fourteen years on the British island of Guernsey, where, among other things, he wrote Les Misérables (1862).

Hugo returned to France after the defeat of Napoleon III in the Franco-Prussian War in 1870. He was welcomed back as national hero, and he achieved very high positions in the government. When he died in 1885, the whole country was filled with grief. Hugo, however, had always said that he did not want a large, expensive funeral. According to his wishes, his body was carried in a poor man’s coffin and buried in Pathéon, where many famous French citizens were buried.

Victor Hugo will always be remembered as one of the world’s greatest and most important writers. He is still considered one of the finest French poets who ever lived. The power and beauty of his greatest novel, Les Misérables, will probably last forever.

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*Romantics: in the early nineteenth century, many writers and artists believed in the importance of individual feelings, the power of freedom and the beauty of language and dreams.

Chapter 1 – Jean Valjean

One evening in October 1815, an hour before sunset, a man with a long beard and dusty, torn clothes walked into the town of Digne. He was in his late forties, of medium height, broad-shouldered and strong. A leather cap half-hid his face, which was sunburnt and shining with sweat. His rough yellow shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a hairy chest. On his back was a heavy soldier’s bag, and in his hand was a large wooden stick.

The townspeople, who had never seen him before, watched with interest as he stopped for water at a fountain. Children followed him to the marketplace, where he stopped for more water at another fountain. He then crossed the square towards an inn, and entered by the kitchen door.

The innkeeper, who was also the cook, was busy with his pots and pans, preparing a meal for a group of travelers who were laughing and joking in the next room.

‘What can I do for you, Monsieur?’* he asked without looking up.

‘A meal and a bed,’ said the stranger.

‘Of course.’ The innkeeper turned to look at him. Then, seeing the visitor’s rough appearance, he added, ‘If you can pay for it.’

‘I have money.’ The stranger produced an old leather purse from his jacket.
‘Then you’re welcome,’ the innkeeper said.

The stranger smile with relief and sat down by the fire. He did not see a young boy run out with a note that the innkeeper had quickly written. He did not see the boy return a short time later and whisper something to the innkeeper.

‘When will the meal be ready?’ the stranger asked.

‘I’m sorry, Monsieur,’ the innkeeper said. ‘You can’t stay here. I’ve got no free rooms.’

‘Then put me in a stable. All I need is a quiet corner somewhere. After dinner..’

‘You can’t eat here either,’ the innkeeper interrupted. ‘I haven’t enough food.’

‘What about all the food in the pots?’

The innkeeper approached and, bending towards the man, said a fierce whisper, ‘Get out, I know who you are. Your name is Jean Valjean. You’ve just been released from prison. I can’t serve people like you here.’

The man rose without another word, picked up his bag and stick, and left. Outside, it was growing dark and a cold wind was blowing from the mountain in the east. The man looked around, desperate for somewhere to spend the night. He tried another inn, but the same thing happened. He knocked on the doors of people’s houses, but news of his arrival had quickly spread and nobody would offer him shelter from the cold. He even tried sleeping in a garden, but was chased away by a dog. Finally, he found himself in the cathedral square. He shook his fist at the church and then, cold and hungry, he lay down on a stone bench by the doorway.

A few minutes later, an old woman came out of the cathedral and saw him lying there.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

He answered angrily, ‘Can’t you see? I’m trying to sleep.’

‘On this bench, in this cold wind?’

‘I’ve slept for nineteen years on a piece of wood. Now it’s stone. What’s the difference?’

‘Why don’t you go to an inn?’

‘Because I haven’t any money,’ he lied.

The old woman opened her purse and gave him a few coins. Then she said, ‘Have you tried everywhere?’

‘I’ve knocked at every door.’

‘What about that one over there?’ she said, pointing across the square to a small house beside the bishop’s palace.

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*Monsieur, Madame, Mademoiselle: the French words for Mr/Sir, Mrs/Madam and Miss. The short forms are M., Mme, Mlle.

The Bishop of Digne was a kind old man who, many years earlier, had given his palace to the town hospital. He lived a simple life with his sister, Mademoiselle Baptistine, and his old servant, Madame Magloire, and he was much loved by the people in the town. He trusted everyone. His doors were never locked, so that anybody who needed his help could find him easily.

That evening, Mme Magloire was chatting with Mlle Baptistine before serving the meal.

‘People say there’s a stranger in town,’ she said. ‘The police say that he looks dangerous, and it would be better for everyone to lock their windows and doors.’

‘Brother.’ Mlle Baptistine turned to the bishop, who was sitting by the fire. ‘Did you hear the Mme Magloire was saying?’

‘Something about a dangerous stranger walking the streets?’ he asked with an mused smile.

‘This is no joke,’ Mme Magloire said. ‘The man is in rags and has an evil look on his face. Everybody in the town agrees that something terrible will happen tonight. And your sister agrees with me that this house isn’t safe. If you like, I can make arrangements now to get a lock put on the door..’

Before the bishop could reply, there was a heavy knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ said the bishop.

The door opened and Jean Valjean, the stranger, walked in. Mme Magloire trembled, open-mouthed with fear, while Mlle Baptistine rose from her seat with alarm. The bishop, however, looked calmly at his unexpected visitor.

‘My name is Jean Valjean,’ the stranger said before anybody could speak. ‘I’ve been in prison for nineteen years. They let me out four days ago. I’ve been walking all the day, and nobody in this town will give me food or a bed for the night. A woman saw me lying on a stone bench across the square and suggested that I come here. So here I am. What is this place? Is it an inn? I’ve got money. Will you let me stay?’

‘Mme Magloire,’ said the bishop, ‘will you please prepare another place at the table for this gentleman?’

Valjean took a step forward. ‘No, you don’t understand,’ he said. ‘I’ve spent five years in prison for violent robbery, another fourteen years for trying to escape four times. I’m a dangerous man.’

‘Mme Magloire,’ the bishop went on, ‘you must put clean sheets on the bed in the spare room.’

Mme Magloire, an obedient servant, left the room without protest.

The bishop turned to the man. ‘Sit down and warm yourself, Monsieur. Supper will soon be ready.’

Jean Valjean face, which had been hard and fierce, suddenly softened. ‘You really mean it?’ he asked, his voice trembling with childish excitement. ‘You’ll let me stay? I’m a dangerous criminal, but you called me “Monsieur”. I don’t believe it. May I ask your name, sir? Are you an innkeeper?’

‘I’m a priest,’ said the bishop. ‘And this is where I live.’

‘A priest?’ Valjean said, sitting by the fire. ‘So I don’t have to pay?’

‘You can keep your money,’ the bishop replied.

During dinner, Mlle Baptistine looked at Valjean kindly while the bishop talked about the local cheese-making industry. Valjean was so hungry that, at first, he paid no attention to anyone. Soon, however, he began to relax, and looked around the room. ‘This is not the house of a rich man,’ he thought. ‘And the travelers in the inn eat better than this.’ But then he looked at the table, and saw the beautiful silver candlesticks, knives and forks.

After dinner, the bishop said goodnight to his sister, picked up one of the two candlesticks and, handing the other to his guest, said, ‘I’ll show you to your room, Monsieur.’

Valjean followed the bishop upstairs into a bedroom. This was the bishop’s bedroom. As he was following the bishop across the room, however, he noticed Mme Magloire putting the silver knives and forks in a cupboard by the bed.

The bishop showed his guest into the spare room.

‘Sleep well,’ he said. ‘Before you leave tomorrow, you must have a bowl of warm milk from our cows.’

Valjean was so tired that he fell asleep, fully-dressed, on top of the sheets, but he didn’t sleep for long. When he woke up, the cathedral clock was striking two, but he had not woken because of this. He had woken because the bed was too comfortable; he had not slept in a proper bed for twenty years. Unable to return to sleep, he gazed into the darkness, thinking about the past twenty years. Life had been unjust to him, and he was angry. In 1795, he had lost his job as a tree-cutter. At that time he was looking after his sister, whose husband had died, and her seven children. Out of work, and with no food in the house, he had been arrested for trying to steal a loaf of bread. Now, at last, he was free, but he felt bitter and angry about his lost years. The world had been unfair to him, and he wanted revenge. Then, remembering the silver on the bishop’s table, he had an idea.

He sat up, swung his feet to the floor and slowly stood up. The house was silent. He moved carefully towards the window and looked out. The night was not very dark; there was a full moon, hidden from time to time by large clouds moving quickly across the sky. After studying the garden, he decided that escape would be easy. He turned back to the room, picked up his bag and took out a short iron bar, sharpened at one end. He then put his shoes into the bag and, grasping the iron bar in his right hand, he moved quietly towards the door of the bishop’s bedroom. It was half-open. The bishop had not closed it.

Valjean stood listening. There was no sound.

He gave the door a gentle push and crept into the bedroom. Just as he reached the side of the bishop’s bed, the moon came out from behind a cloud and filled the room with light. Valjean gazed down at the bishop’s gentle, sleeping face, and felt a kind of terror. He had never before seen such peace, such kindness, such trust.

He suddenly turned away and moved quickly to the cupboard. The first thing he saw when he opened the door was the basket of silver. He grabbed it, hurried back to the spare bedroom, picked up his stick and bag, climbed out of the windows, emptied the silver into his bag and threw the basket into the garden. A minute later he climbed the garden wall and disappeared into the trees.

Early the next morning, while the bishop was studying the flowers in his garden, Mme Magloire ran out of the house with a look of alarm on her face.

‘Monseigneur,* do you know where the silver-basket is?’

‘Yes,’ said the bishop. ‘I found it in one of the flowerbeds.’

‘But it’s empty!’ she cried. ‘Where’s the silver?’

‘Oh, you’re worried about the silver? I don’t know where that is.’

‘Heaven save us, it’s been stolen!’ she cried. ‘The man who came last night! He’s run off with our silver!’

The bishop, who had been bending sadly over a plant damaged by the basket, looked up and said gently, ‘I think I was wrong to keep the silver for so long. It really belongs to the poor. I should have given it away a long time ago.’

Later that morning, as the bishop and his sister were having breakfast, there was a knock on the door. Four men walked into the room. Three of them were policemen; the fourth was Jean Valjean.

‘Monseigneur..’ the sergeant in charge of the group began.

Valjean raised his head with surprise. ‘Monseigneur?’ he repeated. ‘I thought he was a priest.’

‘Silence,’ said one of the policemen. ‘This is the Bishop of Digne.’

The bishop, meanwhile, had moved towards the group of men and was smiling at Jean Valjean.

‘I’m delighted to see you again, dear friend,’ he said. ‘But what about the candlesticks? I gave you those as well, don’t you remember? They’re silver like the rest, and worth at least two hundred francs. Did you forget to take them?’

Jean Valjean’s eyes widened with disbelief.

‘Monseigneur,’ said the sergeant, ‘do I understand that this man telling the truth? We found this silver in his bag, and..’

‘And he told you,’ the bishop finished the sentence for him, ‘that an old priest had given it to him? Yes, he was telling the truth.’

‘So this man isn’t a thief?’ The sergeant looked surprised as Valjean.

‘Not at all. So you can let him go at once.’

The policemen let go of Valjean’s arms. He moved his feet nervously, uncertain of what to say first. Then he murmured, ‘Am I really free to go?’

‘Of course,’ said the bishop. ‘But this time, you mustn’t forget your candlesticks.’

He fetched them from a shelf and gave them to Valjean.

‘Now, go in peace,’ he said softly.

The policemen left, but Valjean did not move. He did not know what to think. The bishop walked up to him and said in a low voice, ‘Don’t forget that you’ve promised to use the money to make yourself an honest man.’

Valjean, who did not remember having such a promise, was silent.

‘Jean Valjean,’ the bishop continued. ‘I’ve bought your soul from the Devil, and have given it to God.’

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*Monseigneur: a title given to people with a high position in the Church.

Jean Valjean left the town and ran into the countryside, blindly following lanes and paths, not realizing that he was running in circles. He was filled with a strange kind of anger, but he did not know why. Finally, as evening fell, he sat on the ground, exhausted, and gazed across the fields at the distant mountains, wishing that he was back in prison. When he had been angry with the world, he had felt calm and sure of himself. But now, for the first time in twenty years, a man had shown him great kindness and he did not know what to feel.

Suddenly, he heard the sound of singing. A boy of about ten years old was coming along a footpath with a small box on his back and dirty knees showing through holes in his trousers. As he sang, he threw a coin into the air and caught it before it fell. Not noticing Jean Valjean sitting by the side of the path, he threw the coin higher into the air. This time, however, he did not catch it and it rolled along the round towards Valjean, who immediately put his foot on it.

The boy, unafraid, walked up to Valjean.

‘Please, Monsieur, may I have my coin?’

‘What’s your name?’ asked Valjean.

‘Petit-Gervais,’ said the boy, smiling truthfully. ‘I’m a chimney sweep, and that money is all I have.’

‘Go away,’ said Valjean.

‘Please, Monsieur, that’s my money.’

Valjean lowered his head and did not reply.

‘My money!’ the boy cried. ‘My piece of silver! My coin!’

Valjean seemed not to hear him. The boy seized his collar and shook him. ‘I want my money!’ he cried.

Valjean slowly raised his head and stared with a sort of amazement at the child. Then, reaching for his stick, he said, ‘Go to Hell!’

The boy, suddenly afraid of the mad, fierce look in Valjean’s eyes, turned and ran.

Valjean stood for some time gazing emptily around him at the sunset and the shadows moving in on him. Suddenly he shivered, as if he had become aware for the first time of the icy wind. He bent down to pick up his bag but, as he did so, he caught sight of the silver coin, half-buried by his foot in the earth.

It affected him like an electric shock. ‘What’s that?’ he murmured. He stared at the coin with a look of puzzlement, as if he were trying to remember something. Then, with a sudden movement, he bent down and picked it up. He looked around but could see nothing in the darkness – just a purple mist rising slowly from the fields.

He called the boy’s name, but there was no reply. Within minutes he was running along the path, shouting, ‘Petit-Gervais! Petit-Gervais!’ There was still no reply.
A short time later, he met a priest on horseback.

‘Have you seen a boy go by?’ he asked.

The priest shook his head. ‘No. Why do you ask?’

Valjean produced two five-franc pieces and gave them to the priest. ‘This is for your poor, Monsieur. He was a boy of about ten, a chimney sweep. Monsieur, you must report me to the police. I’m a thief. I stole money from him. Here, let me give you more money..’

But before Valjean could produce more coins, the priest rode away in terror.
Valjean looked for the boy for another hour, running along the path, calling out his name, but with no success. Finally, he stopped and sat, exhausted, on a rock. Then his heart full of grief for what he had done, he buried his face in his hands and for the first time in nineteen years, he cried.